Mona Lisa Sneer
by RadianceRose
Summary: Cartman won't leave Craig alone, and he has no idea why. Frankly though, it doesn't matter, as long as he keeps well away from Tweek, which appears to be a problem. Rated M for violence, Cartman, sexuality and profanity. Cartman/Craig, Craig/Tweek, Creek
1. The Theif in the Living Room

_You know the kind of story I'm thinking of- boy meets girl, lots of parties, teen drama, lots of school spirit and fabulous local events. Usually, they all live in some glamorous town in some glamorous zip code and they do all these glamorous things there, and even when they get shitfaced at parties or they knock up their girlfriends, they do it with glamour. _

_It's the epitome of the teenage years, right? You go to school, you go to parties, you go to the beach, you get good grades somehow, even though you spend all of your time at parties or screwing your girlfriend. It's the years you get to cut loose, enter adulthood, look back on fondly and laugh and say "well, we were reckless back then, but that's over now" years later and never regret a moment, all that bullshit. If only if life were really like one of those stupid fucking TV dramas. _

_I have to wonder, would anyone still watch those shows if they followed real life? You know the kind of story I'm thinking of-boy meets boy, parties where you're never invited, people who couldn't give a shit about the football team, which sucks anyway, living in a city where the last concert you had the chance to see was in fourth grade, and you couldn't make it because you had stomach flu. You live in the asshole of the world, a town no one's ever heard of, and the closest you've been to a beach in your entire life is the ice skating pond just outside town. It's a place where people not only knock up their girlfriends, but they get beaten up for not having one in the first place. _

_No. _

_I don't think anyone would want to watch a show about real people and real life. They like that over-dramatic teen drama California crap because it helps distract them from real life. They get real life, real shit, all day long, and they don't want to come home to the same situations they just finished dealing with. _

_Honestly, I can't blame them. I'm not sure I'd like a show about real life either. Then again, I can't stand those kinds of shows in the first place. Why waste your time watching other people's problems and other people's lives when you have your own knocking at the door? I-_

I slammed the blue faux-leather book shut quickly. It was just a hobby, but it was a dangerous one. Writing something like that could get you killed in a town like South Park. A few specific parts especially. It was true, regardless, I thought angrily as I stashed the book between the layers of my creaky spring mattress, dark hair falling in my eyes. Who the fuck was at my door at eleven at night anyway?

Whoever it was knocked again.

"Coming!" I called back down the stairs, carefully running down them. I checked the window to the side of the door to see who it was. Cartman. What the fuck did he fucking want?

I opened the door. Cartman entered without permission, shutting the door behind him. "Hello Craig," he said, "what a lovely evening we are having today, yes?"

I just glared at him. "Cartman," I said, unable to keep anger from my voice, "what the fuck are you doing in my living room?"

I couldn't help but flinch as Cartman wrapped his fat arm around my waist. Cartman didn't seem to notice, but I knew that he had. Cartman seemed to live through every glare and flinch and expression of any discomfort I displayed. Quite frankly, it was terrifying how much attention he'd begun to pay me.

"I repeat," I said, swallowing hard as Cartman's hand traveled down my thigh, "what the fuck are you doing in my living room?"

"Why Craig," he replied coolly, "would you rather we take it upstairs? Well, since you clearly want me so much, I can only oblige you. That's what friends are for, right?"

"I want you to leave, Cartman, not go one step farther into my house. I have a little sister, and she doesn't need to be exposed to your filth. For that matter, neither do I. Oh, and for the record, we're not friends, so get your fat fucking hands off of me."

Again, Cartman ignored me. Craig remained emotionless as a hand snaked into my pocket, it's owner grinning sadistically. It was only a moment too late when I realized exactly what Cartman had been after. He hadn't been intending to harass me, piss me off or violate me, although those were perks, he'd been after the ever-present photograph in the pocket of my faded jeans.

_Fuck that fat asshole, _I thought, emotionless as ever, as Cartman examined the picture.

Cartman laughed. "Well, fag, looks like I was right. Can't wait to let everyone know." He paused to stare into my eyes with a fierce and cruel intensity. "Wow. That's disgusting, Craig," he said, turning the photo over and reading the jumpy, scrawling message on the back, half of his mouth curled up into some perverted but equally striking version of the Mona Lisa's smile.

"Cartman, just don't. Give it back, and forget about it," I growled, his eyes flashing with anger. "Give that back to me, and get out of my fucking living room. Now."

One again, Cartman ignored me. "Oh, this is really revolting, Craig. I knew you were fags, but I didn't realize how… gay, you were."

"Get out, Cartman."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't hear you, what was that Craig?"

"I said, get out."

Cartman threw up his hands in defeat, the picture still in his hand, his mouth still contorted in that half a Mona Lisa sneer. "Alright, alright, fag. I'm leaving."

"Not with that picture you're not, you fat fuck. I'm not that stupid."

Cartman paused. "What's wrong, Craig? You afraid I'm going to use this picture," he waved it for emphasis, "to publicly humiliate you and your stupid boyfriend? Oh, you're very smart, Craig, even for a girl."

"Just leave him out of this," I growled, ignoring Cartman's other jibes. "Embarrass me, out me, whatever you want, just leave him out of it."

"Oh, you're so heroic, Craig." He put his free hand on the dark-haired boy's chest, grasping his torn and ancient Red Racer t-shirt and pulling me down slightly so that our faces were almost touching. "But it just so happens that what I want is to make you suffer."

"What the fuck is your problem? Why me?" I slapped away the fat hand grasping his shirt. "Keep your hands off me, and stay the fuck away from Tweek, do you hear me, fatass?"

Cartman only tucked the photograph into the pocket of his plus sized pants. "Let's see, why Craig, why Craig… hmmm… I don't know. Maybe I'm just bored."

"That doesn't answer my question, you fat asshole."

"Well, Craig," Cartman replied, yawning and opening the door to leave, the picture still in his pocket, "maybe I don't have to answer faggots. And maybe I don't need reasons. I'm fucking Eric Cartman, you fag bitch, and I do what I want." He stopped, standing on the threshold. "Go ahead and cry if you want," he added, a touch of hope in his voice.

"I'm not going to fucking cry, Cartman. I'm going to beat the shit out of your fat fucking ass unless you get out this instant."

"There, there, go ahead and cry."

"I'm never going to cry, fatass. Just get the fuck out of here," I seized the door knob, "and leave Tweek the fuck out of this." I slammed the door shut in Cartman's face, hoping I hadn't woken Ruby up, stormed up the stairs and threw himself onto his bed, eyes stinging and cheeks burning.

There was a distinct emptiness in his pocket where the picture had been for so many months. It felt like betrayal to let Cartman get away with it. It was humiliating and it was terrible, but I could only get angry. I could never cry. There were some things in life more important than a few flesh wounds, and I'd take them all if it meant Tweek would be spared them. Tweek was so shaky anyway, I was afraid that any impact or real stress would just shake him apart, and I couldn't afford that. Tweek held me together as much as I held Tweek together. They were like one of those cheap jigsaw puzzle balls you got for a quarter in a dispenser at any convenience store. All the different pieces fit together just right to hold together, and they would all fall apart completely if you pulled away just one.

I sat up. "You're so motherfucking lucky, Stripe," I said angrily. "You don't have to deal with bitch ass mother fuckers like Eric Cartman."

Stripe chirped.

"Yeah, I know, you're probably hungry again, and you're not interested in my fucking problems."

Stripe chirped again, clinging to the bars of her cage, tiny whiskered nose twitching. I sighed dejectedly as I poured sunflower seeds into Stripe's cage. She squeaked happily. Sunflower seeds were a treat she didn't usually get in quite so large a quantity. Yes, I spoiled the fat little guinea pig horribly, but she usually got a blend. Only now, I was too distracted and too angry to care about the right servings. Stripe had mixed feelings about when me was in moods like this. On the one paw, I talked to her a lot and I didn't pay attention to how much food I was giving her, but on the other, I was all angry-sad and I spent a lot of time cursing and scribbling in his book and barely held her at all.

I smiled softly as Stripe took a sunflower seed in her small, pink paws and began to nibble it happily. "I wish we could trade places sometimes, Stripe, but then I think that I wouldn't wish my life away for nothing. I wouldn't wish Eric Cartman on you, and I wouldn't wish for a life without Tweek."

Stripe paused from her munching. It seemed like a good time to console her boy, but the seeds were very tempting. In the end, she held her tiny paw out and touched the boy's hand softly before returning to her seeds.

"Thanks, Stripe. Sometimes it seems like you're the only one who really gets me." I paused, laying down on his side, facing her cage. "Not that there's all that much to get, really."

Stripe squeaked in disagreement.

I grinned. "Glad to know your opinion, pig." I slipped open the cage door and pet her soft caramel and white fur gently before closing it again. "G'night, Stripe."

Stripe purred a goodnight in return, and I flicked off the beside lamp, launching the room into darkness, and nestling beneath a faded Red Racer comforter, the empty space in his pocket still burning a hole into his thigh.


	2. Memories and Paranoia

The halls at school were particularly hostile that next day. It felt like every pair of eyes was watching me, watching us. I could read their thoughts, and they weren't friendly. I felt tense and alone. I couldn't tell Tweek. I didn't want him to get worried. It was so easy for him to get riled up and have his breakdowns about things like this. I couldn't add another thing onto his plate for his neurosis to eat up. No. I had to deal with Eric fucking Cartman all on my own.

Tweek seemed confused. When he tried to comfort me after yet another failed History test, I shrunk away, terrified at what would happen if anyone was watching. It was a total reversal. For once, I was the paranoid one, and Tweek was the normal guy, just trying to comfort me and figure out what I was freaking about. I was pretty good at staying emotionless to the rest of the world, but Tweek could always tell when something was bothering me. When he asked me if I'd like to go with him to his house for lunch, I almost screamed no at him. I felt bad about it a moment later. I knew he just wanted to talk to me about what was going on, because I obviously couldn't say anything in public, but that was the whole problem. They would see us leave together, and everyone's suspicions would be confirmed. And I couldn't do that to him. Instead, we ate in the courtyard with Token and Clyde. And Clyde's girlfriend, Bebe, of course. The two were inseperable. Like Tweek and I should have been. But Tweek's nerves wouldn't let us be. He was worried about everything. What people would think, what people would say, what people would do. I was worried too, a little bit, but not for me. For him. People knew I could take care of myself; that I would kick their bigoted asses if they tried shit with me. Tweek couldn't. If you hit him, he wouldn't defend himself, he would just fall over and take it over and over again; I couldn't even think about it without feeling sick. Tweek noticed. He always noticed.

"Craig?" he stuttered. "Are you okay? Y-you look a little sick."

I shook my head. "I'm fine. Just… something I ate, I guess."

"Okay." He smiled meekly, a smile could melt my heart like a hot knife through butter, and frequently did. But when he tried to touch my hand comfortingly, I stood up with a jolt, knocking my entire lunch, as if I could eat, onto the ground.

Token and Clyde laughed, but Tweek looked worried. He knew something was wrong. He was the clumsy one, not me. "Way to go, spaz," Token laughed.

"Shut up, asshole," I told him, flipping him off on default. "I'm tired," I snapped. Which was true. I hadn't slept at all the night before. Not really. I couldn't, not without the photo, and certainly not with knowing where it was, and with who. I couldn't get the images of Cartman out of my head. Cartman in my living room. Cartman with his hand in my pocket. Cartman with his fat fucking fingers trailing the lines of Tweek's face in the photograph, mocking me. Cartman laughing. Cartman leaving with what was mine. He wanted something from me, and I couldn't figure out what. Of all things, that was what scared me about the whole thing. Cartman was the kind of person who usually just came right out and told you what he wanted, and demanded he got it from you. It worried me that he was being so secretive. Like he wanted me to follow him. Ask more questions. Why? Why would he want to talk to me at all?

In my pocket, my phone vibrated. I cursed, flipping it open. I didn't recognize the number, but I knew who it was. A text messege from the beast himself. He kept it short and to the point.

"I can see the future, fag. You will be in the back lot by the dumpsters in five minutes, or that picture will go live."

I could taste bile in my mouth, bitter and angry. I choked it back, and tossed the dirt flecked pizza whole into the garbage can. "I have to do something, guys. See you later." I shouldered my bag, and made for the back lot. I couldn't believe he had me in such a close grasp already. Clyde and Token seemed a little confused, but they let me go. I was always a bit unpredictable. Instead of asking any questions, they just glanced as I walked away, and instead of answering them, I gave them the finger. We understood each other perfectly.

Cartman was standing there when I arrived. I knew he would be, but the idea of him waiting for me gave me the chills. It wasn't that I was scared. Nothing scares Craig Tucker. It was just… so wrong. "What the fuck do you want, fatass?" I demanded.

"Straight to the point, eh, fag?" I glared at him coldly. He shrugged. "Alright," he said, "I want you."

"What?" I yelled. I was completely caught off guard. What the hell was this? Cartman was a fat, ugly bigot who had always hated me and everything I stood for. He was spoiled and horrible and homophobic. I couldn't believe what he was saying. This wasn't Cartman. There was no way this was Cartman.

"You heard me, faggot," he said, his words biting like whips, lashing out. "If you want your precious Tweek to stay safe, you will do anything I say. You will be my slave, and you will tell no one."

"You're kidding me," I said incredulously. "This has to be some kind of joke!"

Cartman reached forwards, seizing my shirt by the collar and pulling my face to his. "It's not a joke, fag," he spat, "it's a nightmare." My entire body was shaking, anger mixed with confusion mixed with surprise mixed with more anger and worry. I saw it coming to late to stop it. A moment, and Cartman had his lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth, exploring it hungrily. I wanted to scream. It was so wrong, so vile. His fat hands still clutched my shirt collar. I couldn't escape. He might have been overweight, but some of it must have been muscle. I struggled, breaking away.

"I will fucking kill you, Cartman," I growled into his open mouth. "I will kill you, and then I will bring you back to life, and then I will kill you again. I will kill your family, and I will make you watch, and then I will feed all of you to my guinea pig, and I will laugh."

Cartman had one hand off of my collar, and into his pocket. The picture. I felt my heart beating against my chest like a crazed, hunted animal. "You won't do anything to me, Craig. You know how I know?" He grinned that terrible Mona Lisa sneer. "Because if you touch me in any way I don't ask for, your little girlfriend get's it. And not just from me. From everybody. Remember?" Images flashed in my mind. It was ninth grade again. Behind the same dumpster where I stood now. I glanced at my feet, feeling nauseous. There was probably still blood on the asphalt. I could see the ghosts of my classmates crowded around the dumpster, jeering. Some faces were scared, some twisted with hatred, others seemed confused. But no one wanted to help. On the ground, Kyle lay, unconscious, sprawled and bleeding. His nose was broken. Stan stood over him, between the bruised red head and his attacker, a large senior I couldn't remember the name of. It hadn't been an even fight. It hadn't even had a reason. I could see faces in the crowd who were terrified, thinking 'This could be me'.

"Leave him alone," Stan shouted. He was crying, but trying not to show it. "He never did anything to hurt you."

The attacker only laughed, and grabbed Stan by his collar, I could feel an echo of the memory radiating back to Cartman's hand around my collar moments before. My heart raced in my chest, leaping like a scared rabbit. In the memory, Stan snapped back from the attacker's grasp. He had always been thin and tall, but strong. Stan growled. "Touch him again and you will join him on the ground," Stan threatened.

The crowd reacted, jeering. "Like you could do anything to me, faggot," the attacker spat.

In a flash, the position had changed; Stan was on top of the larger senior, hitting him again and again in the face, blood sprouting around his knuckles, crying and screaming. Finally, he stood up, wiped blood from his hands onto his jeans and glared at the crowd, who stood in shocked silence. "This is a warning to all of you," he growled. "The next person to touch Kyle will die. Leave us alone." He walked one tired, staggering step and knelt next to the redhead, who still hadn't regained consciousness. Stan took one pale hand in his and wheeled on the dispersing crowd. "You are just as guilty as anyone." He shook his head, trembling with anger and exhaustion. "How could you just stand there and watch?" He stood up slowly, kneeling to lift Kyle gently from the asphalt. Tenderly, Stan carried him through the crowd, which parted like the red sea to let him pass. No one even dared make a single comment until long after they were gone. Silently, the crowd moved away, Stan's words clearly biting many hearts hard.

I was shaking more than ever at the memory. "Yes," I murmured softly, glaring into Cartman's soulless eyes, "I remember. Maybe it's time you did too." Before he could say anything, I began to walk away.

"What about your picture, fag?" he jeered.

I turned to face him. "I'll take it now," I told him. Walking straight up to his face, I reached for it. My hand closed over his, fingers struggling to free the glossy paper without tearing it. His fingers ensnared mine: a trap. He pulled my face close to his and breathed threateningly in my face, "Well then," he said, pressing his lips to my neck, near my jaw line, "I'll see you after school, faggot." I stood there for what might have been hours, or only seconds, after he vanished, and then swallowed slowly, choking back more bile on my empty stomach. At least I knew what he wanted now. With deliberate slowness, I walked around the front of the building, shook my head, and turned away for home. I could always say I had gone home sick. It was a lame excuse, but that day, it was true. I had never felt so sick in my life.

---- **author's note** Wow. Long time since I worked on this. But I'm working on it now! That counts for something, right? Um. So. Here it is. Chapter two. More to come. I blame Aeris completely. Cheers, ~RadianceRose 


	3. Deadly Truth

The photograph held tightly between my fingers, which were nearly white from the cold, as I'd left my gloves in my locker, I raced home. A breeze which, on a warmer day, would have been pleasant, whipped my hair into icicles around my face. It wasn't pleasant, but I was thankful nonetheless for the frozen wasteland my parents had chosen to raise me in. No one could see you crying if tears froze before they left your eyes, and the shivering that came from holding tears back could easily be excused by the cold Colorado air. Usually that didn't matter. Emotions never stirred me very deeply. If a person is a body of water, I'm an iced-over lake. You can't run a ripple on the surface by skipping stones like you can with most people, but throw enough boulders and you'll crack through into more dark water that you can handle. But crack is exactly what I'd done. Months of agitated paranoia, scared that we'd be found out, scared that we wouldn't, what would happen f we were, the ineducated hate people had in a backwater like where we lived had worn me down, but it was Cartman who had fractured the ice. He'd hit me on a fault line, Tweek, the one place I was vulnerable, and I was splitting open. The cracks seemed almost tangible, like if I looked at myself in a mirror I'd see a jagged schism leaking water and anger and fear everywhere.

I kicked a stray rock down the icy street and watched as it embedded itself in the snow embankment compressed against the curb. Unkempt grass, burried beneath a layer of dirty snow and a mailbox that leaned dangerously to the left greeted my eyes, telling me I was home. Our house didn't have many defining features. It was just like all the others, only a little less tidy. I checked the tilting mailbox instinctually, knowing there wouldn't be anything yet. I barely bothered glancing into the rusted metal box, reaching my free hand in merely from force of habit. My frozen fingers brushed against the cold metal, and then, to my surprise, I felt the smooth, relative warmth of a recently delivered letter. I drew it out, closing the mailbox and examining it, careful not to damage the picture I held in my other hand as I did.

The message was simple, and though there was no return address, nor name on the envelope, I knew who it had been delivered by. Inside the unsealed paper, was a handmade postcard. The photograph was one I knew well, a copy of the one I held, emblazoned, presumably on Cartman's computer, with a splash of campy, brightly coloured lettering that read "Wish You Were Here!" as if Tweek was a place you could go on vacation. I flipped the card over. In large, bold letters, Cartman had written the words, "You want to play, faggot? Fold now. I have all the chips, and my hand is loaded.", and underneath, smaller, "My house. Six O'clock tonight. I know what I want, and I get it… or he does."

Anger stung my eyes in the form of more frozen tears. He couldn't mean it. Even if he did, what could he do to me? But that was it, wasn't it? He couldn't touch me, because he knew full well I would kick his ass if he tried without an effort. But Tweek was a different story. It wasn't that he was weak, more that he was fragile. Everything scared him. He jumped at the smallest sounds. Nightmares plagued him constantly. He was clumsy, and unsure of himself. And he bruised easily.

As manipulative and soulless and Cartman had many times proven himself to be, I knew that if he lifted a finger against him, Cartman could break Tweek into tiny pieces and scatter them to the wind. Somehow Cartman had figured all that out, and somehow, he had figured out that hurting Tweek would hurt me too, maybe even more. Because of how he was, and how he'd been raised, Tweek was used to getting hurt. In reality, so was I, perhaps more so. When it comes to myself, frankly, I could care less. You could put me in the hospital and I'd barely hold a grudge. In fact, it's happened before. But touch someone I care about, and you'd wish you'd never been born. Yes, Cartmans was clever. I couldn't figure out why he wanted… whatever it was he wanted, from me, but I knew I would have to give it to him, or risk whatever his twisted, immoral mind could conceive of doing to Tweek being done.

All the doors closed and locked behind me, I collapsed into the worn Red Racer comforter that draped my bed. For several minutes, I didn't even dare open my eyes until I was sure I could move on without screaming or crying again. I couldn't be weak. I'd go to Cartman's house, and I'd sort this out. And if he dared to touch Tweek after that, I couldn't see myself too opposed to going back to that house, later, and letting Cartman know exactly what my feelings about him were - with a knife. I grinned morbidly, letting my mind wander to all the things the law prevented me from doing to him. I could carve something in his forehead to let everyone know what he really was, like they did with the Nazis in Inglorious Basterds. A mark he could never wash off. I had to push the pictures of blood, Cartman's blood, out of my mind as I opened my eyes. I'd been known to act out violently before, and fantasizing about it, about killing Cartman, hurting Cartman, making him feel everything he'd done to all of us over the years, to Stan and Kyle for being in love, to Butters for being easy to hurt, to Wendy for being smart, to Kenny for being poor, and to me for actually feeling something about somebody, and for other reasons I couldn't even fathom, wouldn't do any good.

I let my eyes open. It was almost six. I checked the window. In the time that I'd been laying on my bed, picturing Cartman paying his debts in blood, the sun had gone down. I slipped my shoes back on, pulled on an overcoat and, under cover of darkness, made my way to Cartman's house.

"Well, well well faggot," Cartman sneered, opening the door at my first knock - too eagerly, as if he'd actually been waiting by the door for me, "it seems you've decided to do what's best and listen to me."

Keeping my cool was usually fairly easy. Not much really made much of a difference one way or another in my mood. I was like water that, no matter how much you boiled it, remained lukewarm. But Cartman had struck a chord. "What the fuck do you want from me, fatass?" My heart was jumping wildly, partially because I was terrified of the overweight, bigoted, soulless boy who stood in his doorway in front of me, partially because I really did have no idea what he could possibly want from me. What exactly had I done to him to make him want me to be so miserable?

Cartman spoke more quietly, but the mocking edge was still there. "I thought that was obvious, faggot," he said. I could almost believe he actually believed I should know what he was thinking.

"Obviously not, dickballs, or I wouldn't be here asking you this goddamn question," I snapped back. I wasn't in the mood for his games. I was in the mood for getting this, whatever it was, over with - for good.

Slowly, deliberately, Cartman leaned forwards, his face nearly touching mine. I felt uneasy - his breath stirred my hair, he was so close. "I'd like you to come in, Craig," he almost whispered.

I didn't know what to make of it. For one, it was the first time that he'd called me Craig in private. Between the two of us, when he was making his threats, he called me only by insults and jibes. For another, the tone of his voice was different than I'd ever heard it before. He wasn't trying to mock me. He was trying to get me through the door. I couldn't stop to think too much. It was probably better to have this conversation inside, where no one would accidentally see or hear us, anyway. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I closed the door behind me, and entered his living room. No sounds came from anywhere in the house. The blinds were all drawn, but it didn't take seeing to know that there would be no car in the driveway, although I hadn't checked before I entered the house. His mother was out of town, at least for the night. And of all nights, he'd chosen this one to invite me over for a little chat.

I wheeled to face him. "Out with it, assfucker, what the fucking hell do you want?"

There was a wicked glimmer in his eyes as he looked at me - like I was a bird with a broken wing, and he was a scavenger sweeping in for the kill, I was paralyzed, as he said, "You, Craig," his hands were on my waist before I could move, before I could lash out at him, "I want you."


	4. Revelations

I felt like I was a million miles away, looking down on Cartman's sealed living room, at him, at me, at us, like it wasn't even real. Like I was watching a movie on a tiny screen from the back of the biggest theatre you've ever seen. My body wouldn't move. My mind was screaming to hit him, get out, do something, god, anything, but I was paralyzed. All the jibes, all the insults, all the pain he had inflicted, wasn't an unjustified hatred, it was a twisted obsession. Helplessly, I watched him kiss me, thanking God, although I didn't belive he existed, that the windows and doors were shuttered and locked. Of course they were. He'd planned all of this.

My vision was clouding with shock, my breath coming in short, strangled gasps. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't happening. Cartman pressed his overweight body on top of me, pinning me to the beige carpet next to his coffee table, face down. "God damn it!" I screamed at myself. "Move you idiot! Move!" But I couldn't. His hands held my waist so hard I could feel it bruising. I felt like screaming. I felt like crying for help. I knew there was no one. There was nothing. The sick bastard had the entire thing planned perfectly. He knew I'd come, he knew how to get me here. I felt vomit in my mouth, and choked it back down, just as the last lights in my eyes flickered out. His face was next to mine as I began to feel myself pass out. With my last hint of conciousness, I heard him whisper like the devil in my ear, "You're mine, bitch."

---

It only took a few moments before I was awake again, but a few was enough. Cartman's hands were at his pants, mine had already been torn down. The terror at the thought of it, at the pain, and humiliation, at the betrayal it would be to Tweek, even if this wasn't my choice, served to shake me from my stupefied paralysis. His hands were firm on my waist and back, holding me steady, preparing for launch, like I was a foreign planet, and Cartman was a rocket ship, but Cartman wasn't as strong as me, not when I was in my mind, instead of floating in the clouds helplessly, like I had been a moment previous. I writhed fiercely, wheeling so I could look Cartman eye to eye.

"You want to play hard to get, faggot?" he growled at me.

Struggling to free myself, I spat back at him, "I am going to kill you," thinking how ridiculous it was to call ME a fag while he was still undoing his pants.

"I doubt that, Craig," he sneered, hitting me, hard, in the jaw with a surprisingly seasoned fist. I could feel blood filling my mouth. My body shook with anger and fear.

Before Cartman could have me pinned beneath his weight and his mercy again, I had hands on his neck. He fell for it instantly as my fingers touched his skin in mock tenderness. I swallowed hard, and tried not to look down. I snaked my hand around seductively, willing him to lean forward: he did. I struck, cobra-fast, seizing a nerve viciously. I smiled ruefully. It wasn't every day you had to empoly a Vulcan death grip to defend yourself from an attacker. The effect was immediate; Cartman was frozen, as I had been. I wasted no time, crushing his nose with my free hand. Blood poured onto the carpet, his and mine. My next punch was aimed in his vast stomach. I didn't care if I killed him, I just wanted him off of me, away from me, gone. I went for his solar plexus, sure regardless that I wouldn't hit it through all the Twinkies and Cheesy Poofs. Reeling in pain and surprise, Cartman was easy to send crashing off of me and into the coffee table.

I zipped up my jeans to regain what diginity I had, then turned, and placed a foot on Cartman's partially opened boxers, putting the pressure where it hurt. I bent, and whispered in his ear, my voice trembling with anger and shock, "This is where you belong: on the floor, bleeding, broken, and alone." I spat in his face. "And as for what you said before, I am certainly not your property. No part of me belongs to you." I twisted my heel, relishing in his agonized expression. "How could it?" I asked, smiling grimly. "All of me belongs to Tweek."

I stepped over the broken coffee table and walked out of the door, locking it behind me. I was too shaken to know what to do, too scared, and too angry, to think rationally. I pulled my phone out of the pocket of my coat, and put it up to my ear.

"H-hello?" I couldn't help but smile.

My voice was still quaivering a little from the encounter not minutes before, but I had to say it. "Tweek," I said, as evenly as I could, "I know we agreed we try and take this slow, and be careful, and be secret, so we wouldn't get hurt." I laughed like a madman.

"Craig?" He sounded worried. "A-are you okay?"

I shook my head, "No," I said truthfully. "I'm not. I said we shouldn't move too fast, admit too much. We should be careful. So we wouldn't get hurt, by each other, the world, this town, these people. But that isn't realistic. Tweek," I coughed, spitting blood into the snow.

"Craig, what h-happened?" Tweek stuttered.

"Cartman happened," I wheezed. "But it's okay. I'm okay," I lied, "Tweek,I don't want to hide from this any more to protect us from getting hurt. Obviously it didn't help me much, and I can protect you better if people know I plan on it." I cleared my throat, spitting out more blood. "I think what I'm trying to say is that I…" I paused, fumbling for the words. "I, oh god, Tweek I can't say it, I can't…" Why was this so hard to say? Why were three words harder than beating Cartman and leaving him broken in his living room? Why were three stupid words so important, and so hard to say, even if they were absolute truth?

"I know, Craig," Tweek whispered, "I love you too."


End file.
